[Roman Turner] "I'm sixteen Miss Kora."
He gently reminded her as he settled in at the table. Even at night he wore a stetson, though at night he changed to an evening hat of black that shadowed eyes the color of faded denim.
"That means I eat anything that comes within my reach."
[Bridget Geroux] The moon is pregnant with fertile thoughts and rage. The chill October air from the lake harrowed passersby with its reminder of the turning of the wheel. There are other things in the air as well, real and imagined. Dust motes and voiceless thoughts drift above the lonesome kinfolk's head as the thorny young woman plays the scales of a tin whistle on a run-down park bench. The piper remains bundled in layers, the second night of frost to frame the recent Indian summer. She had to scrounge the secondhand stores for something affordable, a snug thermal beneath a Calgary Flames babydoll, surplus army coat, large scarf, jeans that have been broken in through the course of a summer, scuffed army boots. One could almost mistake her for a Strider kin except for the glaring strength of Stag coursing through her being.
Bridget is familiar with this neighborhood-- she's earned her bread here many times by entertaining the middle-class yuppies who like to play at being cultured, and of course the genuine lovers of the genre that no other name could fit.
The Fianna kin stares at the few passersby with a startling intensity that sets most people at odds, but is familiar to Garou and the family. A few notes drop off as she finishes her scales, polishes the harmonica with a corner of her blouse, and tucks it into her pocket before rising to her feet. A walk is in order to divert some of her energy.
[Kora] "Mmmph," the creature returns, her voice dampened as she bends over, rummaging through the paper bag to pull out the first of the two Chicago dogs. They're enormous things on giant buns, with a ridiculous number of toppings and a long spear of pickle nestled on top. The weight of her braid falls down over her shoulder as she rummages. " - if I told you that it had escargot on it - " her eyes glint in the shadows as she tips a look up at her young packmate, the smear of his features against the dark velvet of the still evening air. " - even then?"
The second hotdog follows. An XL order of fries is spilled all over the bottom of the bag. Roman can smell then from where he sits, especially once the insulating hotdogs have been removed.
When she rises, hotdog in hang, she gives him another look, less playful this. " - when the hell is your birthday, anyway?" Dark eyes trace the familiar shadow of the boy's features, then her pale brows draw together, that pull of pure breeding, a subtle weight of it in the air, still made fey by the last few strains of the tin whistle the young woman played.
[Roman Turner] His head turned with Kora's, just like Pack animals when something alerted one, it alerted all of them. He'd snagged one of the hot dogs and hadn't even taken a bite, infact he was just holding it there while watching the girl.
"What's escargo? Sounds like what a car does when you turn it on."
Right on the heels of that came.
"April twentith."
[Kora] "Hey - " a moment later, a woman's voice rises above the low murmur of the strange couple's shared conversation. They aren't matched, these two - Kora is a tall 20-something blonde, with a certain lethal grace born in her bones, a certain liquid strength defined by her long limbs, the promise of movement underneath.
There are few streetlights her, half of them have broke bulbs, the rest give off a sickly amber-colored light that gleams in the threads of the woman's pale hair. Beside her, the boy - a still-growing boy, in that way that makes him seem perhaps younger than he is, a good half-head shorter than the sharp-eyed woman calling out to Bridget, now. Her elbow touches Roman's arm, there is a certain easy to their physicality, pack-animals that they are. A way they move together, preternaturally aware of the other, each to each. " - I've seen you before."
Even at a distance, Kora's dark eyes are steady and direct, her scrutiny has a certain lingering instensity, the hot dog cradled in her left hand forgotten for the moment. "Bridget, yeah?"
--
And then, a break in attention, so subtle as to be almost invisble. Over the totemlink, she tells Roman, Snails.
[Roman Turner] He was in the process of taking a bite when Kora's mind whispered to his Snails and that made him pause for a whole half a second before he took the biggest bite he could. His cheeks poofed out like a chipmonk's as he chewed. Sure he was curious about the girl, but he also wanted to eat as much of the hotdog as he could before she got close and asked for some.
[Bridget Geroux] That group reflex-- like one complex organism-- is something Bridget can recognize like the Rage... once noticed, it cannot be ignored. She shuffles her feet for a moment, checks her phone, then approaches calmly with her hands stuffed into her pockets. There's something not quite right about the way she moves, her body language. It is not as obvious at present, but it is something like a girl raised among their lupus cousins and little else.
She stops at a comfortable distance and tries to remember the blonde. It doesn't come to her as readily. "Yeah, but I don't remember where or when I saw you last... Sorry."
The kin leans into her heels a bit as her attention diverts momentarily to the teenaged cowboy, then back to the blonde amazon.
"I'm not interrupting...?"
((Sorry, felt sick))
[Roman Turner] "No ma'am, not at all or she wouldn't of said something to draw ya this way."
He rose from the table, taking another big bite, eating like he was in a big hurry.
"Ya go ahead and take my seat. I gotta do something."
Then his look was on Kora, exchanging a silent message before he simply turned and ambled off in to the dark.
[Kora] Kora flashes this brief, lingering look at her packmate, watching his reaction to the word - Snails. She's a lean creature, shit-kickers set on the flat seat of the picnic table on which they sit, narrow shoulders set straight over a lean torso that is curving forward now, as she leans to hold the hot dog over the ground, the seat rather than her own lap.
"Months ago," Kora clarifies, her mouth twisting with a frission of memory. " - I'm not surprised you don't remember. I know the exact day. I'm Kora, and that was Roman, my packmate." They are alone out here so the Fenrir woman speaks clearly, plainly, her dark gaze intent on the kinswoman, now. Tipping her pale head sideways, she indictes the paper bag that was between her feet and her packmate's, and now sits there along, the paper translucent with grease. "Extra fries, if you want some."
[Bridget Geroux] Bridget stands there for a moment, blinking like she's not sure what just happened. But soon enough she plunks down onto the vacant spot Roman abandoned. She pays no mind to their food, either because she's not hungry or she just knows better. Maybe both.
She shakes her dark head at the offer. "No, thanks. I ate a bit ago. ...And I'm from the Red Deer sept in Alberta."
[Kora] The scent of grease wafting from the bag is just heavier than the cool air around them. Kora's Chicago dog is still untouched, she's just holding it there as if she were contemplating the best way to attack it. There's a paper cup with some steaming liquid on the table beside her, firmly shut. Some hot drink, some balm against the chill autumn air, though it doesn't smell like coffee.
Here there's a certain kind of darkness, the abandoned industrial developments, old red-brick buildings, remnants of another age, when this as the city of big shoulders, hog butcher to the world. There's a still, quiet dark street between them and the river, the weaver's work downtown all visible beyond that, swathed in light, this brilliant array of metal and glass illuminated from within, without, below and above: ablaze.
Once Bridget sits - the table still warm from the cowboy-kid's presence - Kora looks away, out toward the office buildings downtown. "You're a long way from home," Kora says, with this musing ease. " - what brings you to Chicago?" Her chin rises, and she shoots Bridget another look, sidelong, lifting her chin toward the park bench the woman has just vacated. " - you weren't busking, were you?"
[Bridget Geroux] Bridget sits quietly in the dark, more than able to be comfortable without conversation. There's a lot going on besides the need to fill the air with words, many things yet in sacred, wordless form. The motes float through her and drift about until interrupted by Kora's inquiries. They scatter like leaves, a rattling on the sidewalk.
"Busking?" she repeats, not familiar with the term. A hand rests flat against the weathered, split planks of wood.
[Kora] "Busking - " the Skald repeats, her voice a rich alto, hushed in the cool air. There's a siren in the distance. Someone dead, someone dying. Someone murdered. In this neighborhood, like as not, it was no humans involved. Just once Kora tips her head up and back, a winging glance that rises over Bridget's dark head, toward the impression of the northern horizon, back through the hard, derelict lands of her territory - still and just, listening.
Her attention returns in an easy rush, all at once, like breathing in after a note long held. " - it means, you know, playing on the street, hustling for a bit of change. Guitar or the pipes or the fiddle or whatever you have at hand."
[Bridget] The sirens draw the feral kin's attention as well. Soon enough, her eyes drift to the splintered planks that comprise their tabletop. She shakes her head, then shrugs lean shoulders.
"Not tonight. Had to before, but right now I can manage."
It's true, although she does seem like she's been out of the world for a while. Not high, just distant, a moon-brained calf. Or a stray taken back by the busy reality of the dense jungle alight with fool's gold and cold fire.
"I've done fine on my own so far."
[Kora] That draws a brief, sharp look from the Skald. Her dark eyes are luminous with reflected light, that animal sheen one expects from Garou - inhuman, other - but the color itself is lost in the shadows, in the gleam of light across the surface of her eyes. She's dressed like some ordinary girl - worn jeans, those black boots, and a hooded cotton jacket in banded shades of blue that is fitted to her shoulders, snug against her torso, just the hood loose under the weight of her pale French braid, thick as a man's wrist. Generous mouth still, she studies Bridget with this sort of lingering attention.
"You haven't met your tribe yet, have you - " the faintest pause, spliced together, stitched. Then, quiet. Almost gentle, really. " - where are you living, now?"
[Simon Zahradnik] Simon was whistling to himself as he strolled down the street with a bag slung over his back and his usual baseball bat in hand. He wasn't focusing his attention anywhere in particular simply making his way down the street without a care in the world. It was almost entertaining the way in which someone could both carry the weight of the world on their shoulders and yet retain that whistful careless appearance. It was all but a part of the charm of youth... Even if he was older than many Ahrouns would make it he was still what most would consider a young man.
[Bridget] That reflex, the sharp snap of attention, the feral semi-focusing of razor senses-- all would frighten many kin, but there is almost a shard of recognition or something like it in the Stag kin raised in the thick of wildness. While Kora is a force to be greatly respected and feared, there's no real cause for panic.
A lot of kinfolk find that disturbing or stupid. It's as simple as the changing of the skies, it's in her nature. Bridget meets the amazon's eyes for a brief moment, then blinks and shakes her head.
"I've been told there are others. Some wolf-born who ran off when I was playing. Didn't get his name, but he said there were other Fianna. I haven't seen them."
[Kora] "Simon - " moon-dancer, song-singer, tale-teller that she is, Kora's voice was made to carry. It rises easily now. The Shadow Lord will see them, the kinswoman with her pure blood, and the Skald who has none, sitting on the flat top of a picnic table, their feet on the seat. A bag of French fries between them, and a hotdog in the pale-haired Fenrir woman's hand. She tips her head backward, indicating that he should join them.
Then she looks back to Bridget and continues as if she hadn't just interrupted herself, dark eyes fixed on the younger woman's face. "The Sept is at war," Kora informs her, with the low surety of a fanatic. " - and you shouldn't be without friends. Do you have a place? - an apartment, something?"
[Bridget] There's a figure along the sidewalk that is familiar. Languering stride, a certain height and body language that catches the kinfolk's attention. The glimmer of someone who thinks they see someone they recognize. Kora says his name, and Bridget sits upright, pulls her hands off the table into her lap, and focuses intently on some graffiti scratched and scrawled into the table. Her heart pounds and she remains as still as possible. It's not fear, something else.
"Oui," a low response. "In Bronzeville."
[Simon Zahradnik] Simon's whistle stops when he catches sight of Bridget and then Kora. He couldn't help but find his smile brightening, that youthful smile positively glowing as he decided to approach both women. His grip remains on the bat, and while his kind might recognize the weapon for what it was it wasn't entirely out of place... Especially considering the area he lives in. Baseball was america's sport! Simon might as well be flying a flag and eating an apple pie!
Soon enough he came upon the women. A nod of his head and a polite little bow in greeting to either."Just the women I was hoping to bump into... Well... Kinda. I mean... You're women. So I was probably hoping to bump into you right?"He asks with a soft little laugh."Might as well be two you know."He looks between Kora and Bridget."You two know one another? Mind if I join you?"He asks curiously. He didn't want to interrupt anything.
[Kora] "My kinswoman, Cigney - " there is a sort of stillness underneath. It isn't grief that thickens her voice, just that awareness of life and death and the edge in between, a spark of rage underneath, made brighter tonight by the waxing gibbous moon that skims the sky, her face hidden by one of those office towers in the distance, across the Chicago River, a world away. " - was attacked by cursed humans in a park there, alone at night. She destroyed two of them, but in the end they overpowered. My packmate and I tracked down the ones that escaped, found a larger nest and ended it. The city's dangerous, though, for a kinswoman alone, with blood like yours. Last spring, another kin was kidnapped by our enemies in the north. His cousin recovered him the first time.
"The second time she knew he was lost." Her faint expression shifts when Simon approaches, dark eyes touch on his bat, then rise to his face. "You're welcome, -yuf," quiet, that. "Have some fries."
There's a bag full, on the seat of the picnic table.
Then, a glance back at Bridget's face. "If there's no one else, I will look in on you, until you find your tribe."
[Bridget] A breath escapes the young Canadian. She digs in her pocket for the harmonica, polishing it to keep her hands busy. A smile forces its way out. Simon's bat isn't really all that inconspicuous considering the rough-and-tumble neighborhood he's in or the ink across his skin.
Bridget's attention goes to Kora for the moment, pushing her hair behind an ear. Her smile fades. Somehow, the thought that crosses her mind does not seem quite appropriate, or overly sincere. So, she searches for something truly appropriate. "It is good you keep their memory. My father is also a Galliard."
A moment, she looks to Simon, then back to Kora. "And thank you."
[Simon Zahradnik] He laughs softly to himself and takes a seat ad well as some of the offered fries."Don't mind if I do..."He says more than happily grabbing several and munching them down. Growing boys need their nutrition and Simon seems to be in a state of near constant ravenous hunger. It wasn't really surprising considering how much he seems to push himself... Physical perfection was only part of what was required of a full moon. His standards were a little higher than some... Even the fenrir might find themselves lifting a brow at how high he has set the bar for any garou, and particularly his auspice, however that was part of what made his tribe who they were. Call them what you will... At their best the Shadow Lords can be the most frighteningly efficient and deadly force the world has ever seen. When they can stop killing eachother long enough to do so.
He munches down a few fries before looking back up to Kora."I think there should be a little more control on things personally. I mean we don't wanna lock our kin down they are the foundation of our society right? They pay the bills for fucks sake but still... If I were one of the badguys you could be damn sure I would have killed or taken half the septs kin by now. I mean sure we garou might be valliqant and brave and our kin just the same... But all the bravery in the world won't stop a wicked man from doing wicked things right?"He asks with a shrug of his shoulders."I'd much rather we keep better tabs on our kin especially in times of war. Cause as strong as they might be a captured kin is at best a terrible loss and at worst a liability."
[Cordelia] She must have known every damned bar in Chicago. Well, maybe not every bar? But she's got a fair knowledge of them and can navigate the bar scene quite well. So, as a result, she can get pretty much anywhere in relation to a bar.
The problem, of ourse, was that a lot of the nicer cab companies don't like to actually pick her up at the places she's gone, so as a result she's making her way through the park, which a cab would pick her up. Context aside, here she is now. She's tall, very... very tall. She's unapologetically tall, nearly six feet eve. Her coat's boring and understated, her shirt's warm and comfortable. And her jeans are tailored... because good luck trying to find a pair of jeans that are slim enough and long enough for her.
Joys of being built like a runway model. The female is rocking the most awkward set of glasses, though, which offsets the fact that she has the potential to be cute.
[Kora] "There are more than a million people in the city, -yuf," Kora returns, quietly, her dark eyes lingering on Simon for the moment, her rich voice low and musing. "If you were a bad guy, the likelihood that you would stumble on a kin is pretty low. Though, I suppose if you specifically were a bad guy, tonight would be your luck night, Simon." The creature lifts her chin in the direction of the Silver Fang kinswoman now walking in the understated coat, her equal or more in height, alone.
"Control them too much, and they'll leave. It'd be easy for them to disappear." The narrowest of shrugs, then. "Anyway, my kin do more than keep me in pin money," she says, with a faint thread of amusement underneath the tone. " - and I have to go see one now. Watch over both of them - " a glance at Bridget, then Cordelia, as she rises, swings to her feet. " - make sure they get home safely, would you?"
"Evening, Bridget," quiet, still, "Simon - "
[Kora] (this is the LIZ NEEDS SLEEP post. night y'all. :) )
He gently reminded her as he settled in at the table. Even at night he wore a stetson, though at night he changed to an evening hat of black that shadowed eyes the color of faded denim.
"That means I eat anything that comes within my reach."
[Bridget Geroux] The moon is pregnant with fertile thoughts and rage. The chill October air from the lake harrowed passersby with its reminder of the turning of the wheel. There are other things in the air as well, real and imagined. Dust motes and voiceless thoughts drift above the lonesome kinfolk's head as the thorny young woman plays the scales of a tin whistle on a run-down park bench. The piper remains bundled in layers, the second night of frost to frame the recent Indian summer. She had to scrounge the secondhand stores for something affordable, a snug thermal beneath a Calgary Flames babydoll, surplus army coat, large scarf, jeans that have been broken in through the course of a summer, scuffed army boots. One could almost mistake her for a Strider kin except for the glaring strength of Stag coursing through her being.
Bridget is familiar with this neighborhood-- she's earned her bread here many times by entertaining the middle-class yuppies who like to play at being cultured, and of course the genuine lovers of the genre that no other name could fit.
The Fianna kin stares at the few passersby with a startling intensity that sets most people at odds, but is familiar to Garou and the family. A few notes drop off as she finishes her scales, polishes the harmonica with a corner of her blouse, and tucks it into her pocket before rising to her feet. A walk is in order to divert some of her energy.
[Kora] "Mmmph," the creature returns, her voice dampened as she bends over, rummaging through the paper bag to pull out the first of the two Chicago dogs. They're enormous things on giant buns, with a ridiculous number of toppings and a long spear of pickle nestled on top. The weight of her braid falls down over her shoulder as she rummages. " - if I told you that it had escargot on it - " her eyes glint in the shadows as she tips a look up at her young packmate, the smear of his features against the dark velvet of the still evening air. " - even then?"
The second hotdog follows. An XL order of fries is spilled all over the bottom of the bag. Roman can smell then from where he sits, especially once the insulating hotdogs have been removed.
When she rises, hotdog in hang, she gives him another look, less playful this. " - when the hell is your birthday, anyway?" Dark eyes trace the familiar shadow of the boy's features, then her pale brows draw together, that pull of pure breeding, a subtle weight of it in the air, still made fey by the last few strains of the tin whistle the young woman played.
[Roman Turner] His head turned with Kora's, just like Pack animals when something alerted one, it alerted all of them. He'd snagged one of the hot dogs and hadn't even taken a bite, infact he was just holding it there while watching the girl.
"What's escargo? Sounds like what a car does when you turn it on."
Right on the heels of that came.
"April twentith."
[Kora] "Hey - " a moment later, a woman's voice rises above the low murmur of the strange couple's shared conversation. They aren't matched, these two - Kora is a tall 20-something blonde, with a certain lethal grace born in her bones, a certain liquid strength defined by her long limbs, the promise of movement underneath.
There are few streetlights her, half of them have broke bulbs, the rest give off a sickly amber-colored light that gleams in the threads of the woman's pale hair. Beside her, the boy - a still-growing boy, in that way that makes him seem perhaps younger than he is, a good half-head shorter than the sharp-eyed woman calling out to Bridget, now. Her elbow touches Roman's arm, there is a certain easy to their physicality, pack-animals that they are. A way they move together, preternaturally aware of the other, each to each. " - I've seen you before."
Even at a distance, Kora's dark eyes are steady and direct, her scrutiny has a certain lingering instensity, the hot dog cradled in her left hand forgotten for the moment. "Bridget, yeah?"
--
And then, a break in attention, so subtle as to be almost invisble. Over the totemlink, she tells Roman, Snails.
[Roman Turner] He was in the process of taking a bite when Kora's mind whispered to his Snails and that made him pause for a whole half a second before he took the biggest bite he could. His cheeks poofed out like a chipmonk's as he chewed. Sure he was curious about the girl, but he also wanted to eat as much of the hotdog as he could before she got close and asked for some.
[Bridget Geroux] That group reflex-- like one complex organism-- is something Bridget can recognize like the Rage... once noticed, it cannot be ignored. She shuffles her feet for a moment, checks her phone, then approaches calmly with her hands stuffed into her pockets. There's something not quite right about the way she moves, her body language. It is not as obvious at present, but it is something like a girl raised among their lupus cousins and little else.
She stops at a comfortable distance and tries to remember the blonde. It doesn't come to her as readily. "Yeah, but I don't remember where or when I saw you last... Sorry."
The kin leans into her heels a bit as her attention diverts momentarily to the teenaged cowboy, then back to the blonde amazon.
"I'm not interrupting...?"
((Sorry, felt sick))
[Roman Turner] "No ma'am, not at all or she wouldn't of said something to draw ya this way."
He rose from the table, taking another big bite, eating like he was in a big hurry.
"Ya go ahead and take my seat. I gotta do something."
Then his look was on Kora, exchanging a silent message before he simply turned and ambled off in to the dark.
[Kora] Kora flashes this brief, lingering look at her packmate, watching his reaction to the word - Snails. She's a lean creature, shit-kickers set on the flat seat of the picnic table on which they sit, narrow shoulders set straight over a lean torso that is curving forward now, as she leans to hold the hot dog over the ground, the seat rather than her own lap.
"Months ago," Kora clarifies, her mouth twisting with a frission of memory. " - I'm not surprised you don't remember. I know the exact day. I'm Kora, and that was Roman, my packmate." They are alone out here so the Fenrir woman speaks clearly, plainly, her dark gaze intent on the kinswoman, now. Tipping her pale head sideways, she indictes the paper bag that was between her feet and her packmate's, and now sits there along, the paper translucent with grease. "Extra fries, if you want some."
[Bridget Geroux] Bridget stands there for a moment, blinking like she's not sure what just happened. But soon enough she plunks down onto the vacant spot Roman abandoned. She pays no mind to their food, either because she's not hungry or she just knows better. Maybe both.
She shakes her dark head at the offer. "No, thanks. I ate a bit ago. ...And I'm from the Red Deer sept in Alberta."
[Kora] The scent of grease wafting from the bag is just heavier than the cool air around them. Kora's Chicago dog is still untouched, she's just holding it there as if she were contemplating the best way to attack it. There's a paper cup with some steaming liquid on the table beside her, firmly shut. Some hot drink, some balm against the chill autumn air, though it doesn't smell like coffee.
Here there's a certain kind of darkness, the abandoned industrial developments, old red-brick buildings, remnants of another age, when this as the city of big shoulders, hog butcher to the world. There's a still, quiet dark street between them and the river, the weaver's work downtown all visible beyond that, swathed in light, this brilliant array of metal and glass illuminated from within, without, below and above: ablaze.
Once Bridget sits - the table still warm from the cowboy-kid's presence - Kora looks away, out toward the office buildings downtown. "You're a long way from home," Kora says, with this musing ease. " - what brings you to Chicago?" Her chin rises, and she shoots Bridget another look, sidelong, lifting her chin toward the park bench the woman has just vacated. " - you weren't busking, were you?"
[Bridget Geroux] Bridget sits quietly in the dark, more than able to be comfortable without conversation. There's a lot going on besides the need to fill the air with words, many things yet in sacred, wordless form. The motes float through her and drift about until interrupted by Kora's inquiries. They scatter like leaves, a rattling on the sidewalk.
"Busking?" she repeats, not familiar with the term. A hand rests flat against the weathered, split planks of wood.
[Kora] "Busking - " the Skald repeats, her voice a rich alto, hushed in the cool air. There's a siren in the distance. Someone dead, someone dying. Someone murdered. In this neighborhood, like as not, it was no humans involved. Just once Kora tips her head up and back, a winging glance that rises over Bridget's dark head, toward the impression of the northern horizon, back through the hard, derelict lands of her territory - still and just, listening.
Her attention returns in an easy rush, all at once, like breathing in after a note long held. " - it means, you know, playing on the street, hustling for a bit of change. Guitar or the pipes or the fiddle or whatever you have at hand."
[Bridget] The sirens draw the feral kin's attention as well. Soon enough, her eyes drift to the splintered planks that comprise their tabletop. She shakes her head, then shrugs lean shoulders.
"Not tonight. Had to before, but right now I can manage."
It's true, although she does seem like she's been out of the world for a while. Not high, just distant, a moon-brained calf. Or a stray taken back by the busy reality of the dense jungle alight with fool's gold and cold fire.
"I've done fine on my own so far."
[Kora] That draws a brief, sharp look from the Skald. Her dark eyes are luminous with reflected light, that animal sheen one expects from Garou - inhuman, other - but the color itself is lost in the shadows, in the gleam of light across the surface of her eyes. She's dressed like some ordinary girl - worn jeans, those black boots, and a hooded cotton jacket in banded shades of blue that is fitted to her shoulders, snug against her torso, just the hood loose under the weight of her pale French braid, thick as a man's wrist. Generous mouth still, she studies Bridget with this sort of lingering attention.
"You haven't met your tribe yet, have you - " the faintest pause, spliced together, stitched. Then, quiet. Almost gentle, really. " - where are you living, now?"
[Simon Zahradnik] Simon was whistling to himself as he strolled down the street with a bag slung over his back and his usual baseball bat in hand. He wasn't focusing his attention anywhere in particular simply making his way down the street without a care in the world. It was almost entertaining the way in which someone could both carry the weight of the world on their shoulders and yet retain that whistful careless appearance. It was all but a part of the charm of youth... Even if he was older than many Ahrouns would make it he was still what most would consider a young man.
[Bridget] That reflex, the sharp snap of attention, the feral semi-focusing of razor senses-- all would frighten many kin, but there is almost a shard of recognition or something like it in the Stag kin raised in the thick of wildness. While Kora is a force to be greatly respected and feared, there's no real cause for panic.
A lot of kinfolk find that disturbing or stupid. It's as simple as the changing of the skies, it's in her nature. Bridget meets the amazon's eyes for a brief moment, then blinks and shakes her head.
"I've been told there are others. Some wolf-born who ran off when I was playing. Didn't get his name, but he said there were other Fianna. I haven't seen them."
[Kora] "Simon - " moon-dancer, song-singer, tale-teller that she is, Kora's voice was made to carry. It rises easily now. The Shadow Lord will see them, the kinswoman with her pure blood, and the Skald who has none, sitting on the flat top of a picnic table, their feet on the seat. A bag of French fries between them, and a hotdog in the pale-haired Fenrir woman's hand. She tips her head backward, indicating that he should join them.
Then she looks back to Bridget and continues as if she hadn't just interrupted herself, dark eyes fixed on the younger woman's face. "The Sept is at war," Kora informs her, with the low surety of a fanatic. " - and you shouldn't be without friends. Do you have a place? - an apartment, something?"
[Bridget] There's a figure along the sidewalk that is familiar. Languering stride, a certain height and body language that catches the kinfolk's attention. The glimmer of someone who thinks they see someone they recognize. Kora says his name, and Bridget sits upright, pulls her hands off the table into her lap, and focuses intently on some graffiti scratched and scrawled into the table. Her heart pounds and she remains as still as possible. It's not fear, something else.
"Oui," a low response. "In Bronzeville."
[Simon Zahradnik] Simon's whistle stops when he catches sight of Bridget and then Kora. He couldn't help but find his smile brightening, that youthful smile positively glowing as he decided to approach both women. His grip remains on the bat, and while his kind might recognize the weapon for what it was it wasn't entirely out of place... Especially considering the area he lives in. Baseball was america's sport! Simon might as well be flying a flag and eating an apple pie!
Soon enough he came upon the women. A nod of his head and a polite little bow in greeting to either."Just the women I was hoping to bump into... Well... Kinda. I mean... You're women. So I was probably hoping to bump into you right?"He asks with a soft little laugh."Might as well be two you know."He looks between Kora and Bridget."You two know one another? Mind if I join you?"He asks curiously. He didn't want to interrupt anything.
[Kora] "My kinswoman, Cigney - " there is a sort of stillness underneath. It isn't grief that thickens her voice, just that awareness of life and death and the edge in between, a spark of rage underneath, made brighter tonight by the waxing gibbous moon that skims the sky, her face hidden by one of those office towers in the distance, across the Chicago River, a world away. " - was attacked by cursed humans in a park there, alone at night. She destroyed two of them, but in the end they overpowered. My packmate and I tracked down the ones that escaped, found a larger nest and ended it. The city's dangerous, though, for a kinswoman alone, with blood like yours. Last spring, another kin was kidnapped by our enemies in the north. His cousin recovered him the first time.
"The second time she knew he was lost." Her faint expression shifts when Simon approaches, dark eyes touch on his bat, then rise to his face. "You're welcome, -yuf," quiet, that. "Have some fries."
There's a bag full, on the seat of the picnic table.
Then, a glance back at Bridget's face. "If there's no one else, I will look in on you, until you find your tribe."
[Bridget] A breath escapes the young Canadian. She digs in her pocket for the harmonica, polishing it to keep her hands busy. A smile forces its way out. Simon's bat isn't really all that inconspicuous considering the rough-and-tumble neighborhood he's in or the ink across his skin.
Bridget's attention goes to Kora for the moment, pushing her hair behind an ear. Her smile fades. Somehow, the thought that crosses her mind does not seem quite appropriate, or overly sincere. So, she searches for something truly appropriate. "It is good you keep their memory. My father is also a Galliard."
A moment, she looks to Simon, then back to Kora. "And thank you."
[Simon Zahradnik] He laughs softly to himself and takes a seat ad well as some of the offered fries."Don't mind if I do..."He says more than happily grabbing several and munching them down. Growing boys need their nutrition and Simon seems to be in a state of near constant ravenous hunger. It wasn't really surprising considering how much he seems to push himself... Physical perfection was only part of what was required of a full moon. His standards were a little higher than some... Even the fenrir might find themselves lifting a brow at how high he has set the bar for any garou, and particularly his auspice, however that was part of what made his tribe who they were. Call them what you will... At their best the Shadow Lords can be the most frighteningly efficient and deadly force the world has ever seen. When they can stop killing eachother long enough to do so.
He munches down a few fries before looking back up to Kora."I think there should be a little more control on things personally. I mean we don't wanna lock our kin down they are the foundation of our society right? They pay the bills for fucks sake but still... If I were one of the badguys you could be damn sure I would have killed or taken half the septs kin by now. I mean sure we garou might be valliqant and brave and our kin just the same... But all the bravery in the world won't stop a wicked man from doing wicked things right?"He asks with a shrug of his shoulders."I'd much rather we keep better tabs on our kin especially in times of war. Cause as strong as they might be a captured kin is at best a terrible loss and at worst a liability."
[Cordelia] She must have known every damned bar in Chicago. Well, maybe not every bar? But she's got a fair knowledge of them and can navigate the bar scene quite well. So, as a result, she can get pretty much anywhere in relation to a bar.
The problem, of ourse, was that a lot of the nicer cab companies don't like to actually pick her up at the places she's gone, so as a result she's making her way through the park, which a cab would pick her up. Context aside, here she is now. She's tall, very... very tall. She's unapologetically tall, nearly six feet eve. Her coat's boring and understated, her shirt's warm and comfortable. And her jeans are tailored... because good luck trying to find a pair of jeans that are slim enough and long enough for her.
Joys of being built like a runway model. The female is rocking the most awkward set of glasses, though, which offsets the fact that she has the potential to be cute.
[Kora] "There are more than a million people in the city, -yuf," Kora returns, quietly, her dark eyes lingering on Simon for the moment, her rich voice low and musing. "If you were a bad guy, the likelihood that you would stumble on a kin is pretty low. Though, I suppose if you specifically were a bad guy, tonight would be your luck night, Simon." The creature lifts her chin in the direction of the Silver Fang kinswoman now walking in the understated coat, her equal or more in height, alone.
"Control them too much, and they'll leave. It'd be easy for them to disappear." The narrowest of shrugs, then. "Anyway, my kin do more than keep me in pin money," she says, with a faint thread of amusement underneath the tone. " - and I have to go see one now. Watch over both of them - " a glance at Bridget, then Cordelia, as she rises, swings to her feet. " - make sure they get home safely, would you?"
"Evening, Bridget," quiet, still, "Simon - "
[Kora] (this is the LIZ NEEDS SLEEP post. night y'all. :) )
Post a Comment